When Oakley Ponciano declared it a "black piglet," Grace Barron went stock-still.
Then she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a tissue, tossed it in the bin, and couldn't help laughing. "A black piglet?"
She knew the piece looked… rookie. One glance and you'd guess first attempt. That was why she'd hidden it, why she'd kept planning how to fix and refine before daring to gift it. Oakley's streak of rainbow-flavored praise didn't bolster her confidence; if anything, it clarified the truth. The result really was a little tragic. The universe kept its balance—give her skill A and it quietly withholds skill B. When it came to handiwork, she was a limping thing.
"Isn't it?" Oakley turned the felt creature in her palm, genuinely puzzled by the laughter.
She did like it. Maybe the filter over her eyes was too strong, but the odd little thing, ugly-cute, felt different in a way she adored. The more she looked, the more it charmed her.
Grace sighed, almost inaudibly. "I called it a chimera for a reason. You didn't believe me."
Realizing she'd probably guessed wrong, Oakley squinted, trying her best to identify the species and failing. "Then… what is it?"
"A cat," Grace said at last, sparing her the quiz. "Tortoiseshell."
"Oh." Oakley's hand flew to her mouth. The absurdity of her earlier certainty made her grin around her own fingers.
She rallied, unashamed, and doubled down on delight. "Then it's a very distinctive cat—unlike any other. Extremely cool."
That was Oakley's gift: the pivot into praise, honest and nimble; logic as watertight as a teacup, yet somehow soft enough to drink.
Grace tucked both hands into her pockets, chin lifting a fraction as she studied this irrepressible creature—like a director watching a natural. "With reflexes like yours, it's a pity you don't act."
So much quicksilver in her. Roles would slip on and off like silk. She'd hardly ever miss a take. Directors would love her.
Oakley laughed until her eyes thinned. "I really did think about it. With my talent? The Oscars would have been a formality."
If not for the rest of her: too blunt, too straight through the line. Or simply unwilling to learn the contortions required. Drop her into that labyrinth of trades and favors and she'd be eaten in a week.
She let the joke fade, and her voice came back steady. "But I'm not acting now. I don't care what it's supposed to be. Even if it were a long-tailed rat, I'd like it."
"Your taste runs that heavy?"
"It's not my taste," Oakley said, setting the fruit plate on the coffee table and considering the tortoiseshell again. She tapped its ear with one fingertip. "It's intention. People don't make this for someone they dislike. You, secretly stabbing at wool for me, means you like me. Whatever kind of like it is, it means I'm in your head. That's enough to make me happy."
She said it lightly, but warmth hid in the seams. A gentleness that rang true.
Grace lifted her gaze. The corner of her mouth moved.
Back in school, plenty of people had reduced Oakley to "that loud, arrogant girl," or "the big-busted airhead." Grace had never agreed. Even then, she'd felt the verdicts missed something crucial. Now, sharing a roof with Oakley, she was certain.
Unquestionably, she liked her. A lot. Grace had carried the word responsibility across her shoulders since childhood; mountains make you careful. She learned precision, caution, strategy. Useful traits, pricy cost. Somewhere along the way she misplaced an easy access to herself.
"Who am I?"—that question had ruled years of her life. Oakley was the opposite. Even grown, she met the world as if it might still be simple. She'd taken her knocks, sure—plenty of them—but she could still look at a mountain and call it a mountain, look at water and let it be water.
In that sense, Oakley was braver. Better.
Grace had admired her from their very first day. However many people called Oakley ridiculous or worse, to Grace she'd always been lit from within.
But faced with such open weather, Grace never knew quite what to say. She couldn't split herself open on command the way Oakley did. What came out was only the smallest visible piece of the iceberg: "I'm glad it makes you happy. I'll—go shower?"
"Mm, yes. Go." Oakley lifted her head, then remembered. "Oh—wait."
Grace stopped. "Yes?"
Under the light, Oakley stood very simply, all lean lines and clear eyes, like a calla lily made of breath. "Have you had dinner?"
Grace blinked. "No."
She'd come straight home, pausing nowhere. Eating had not made the list. It often didn't. Especially when focus had her by the collar—her body's signals turned mutely cooperative. Efficient, yes. Also unkind.
"Perfect," Oakley said quickly. "I haven't either. I'll order something. When you're out, we'll eat together, okay?"
"Okay."
Grace turned and climbed the stairs.
Oakley watched that long figure vanish, then looked down at the felt in her hand.
At heart, Grace was tender. That was Oakley's sense of it. Somewhere along the road, she'd had to set too many things down—some on purpose, some because there was no one to help her carry them.
And who would have guessed that an offhand post from ages ago would snag in Grace's mind and sit there, waiting, until it became a gift? When was the last time someone held her words like that?
She couldn't remember.
Oakley pressed her lips into a small line; her eyes softened, calm as dusk.
She sank into the corner of the sofa, found the comfortable shape of the cushions, and opened her phone.
At the exact moment the app loaded, a thought jolted her upright.
Oh no. She'd forgotten to ask what Grace wanted to eat.
Oakley Ponciano hesitated, then decided it wasn't worth fretting over. Worst case, she ordered something uninspired. It's not poison—Grace Barron wasn't going to refuse dinner… right?
Still, when she actually opened the delivery app, her thumbs betrayed her, turning picky on Grace's behalf.
Málà blood stew? No—too spicy; Grace would fold in two bites. Offal? Better not. On their hot-pot trip she'd learned her lesson: duck intestine, pork kidney—Oakley had polished them off alone. Grace hadn't so much as tapped them with a chopstick.
She sifted through reviews and picked a safest-of-safe braise: yellow-stewed chicken, no chili. Added the green veg Grace liked, and—purely for herself—pigs' ears. Order placed.
She tossed the phone aside and yawned, small and satisfied.
The tortoiseshell "cat" came back into her hands. She lay on the sofa and rubbed it against her temple like a charm.
"Not a pig," she whispered, smiling. "You ridiculous woman." A beat, and a fond poke to the creature's blunt little muzzle. "Ridiculous Grace."
Something lit behind her eyes. She shot upright, slid into slippers, and jogged upstairs.
In her room she made for the drawers, yanking them open until she found a keychain she'd bought ages ago. It had once carried a Pikachu; the tiny connector ring had broken, and one day the toy had simply… vanished.
Perfect for a new attachment.
She set the keychain beside the felt cat and tested the fit. Problem: no loop on the cat. Nowhere to clip. She'd need a tiny screw eye, a split ring, a pair of pliers.
Fine. Oakley opened the all-capable shopping app and searched. Tools first, triumph later. Order confirmed.
Then she slid into her social accounts. The last two videos were performing well—back to her usual rhythm. The DMs still carried a steady stream of strangers' poison, but… oddly, it didn't seem to land anymore.
It was strange. Maybe Grace really was the odd-shaped treasure written into her life. Since the day they'd signed that paper, it felt like someone had buckled a plated cuirass over Oakley's heart. Bullets still whistled in from every direction; somehow they flattened and fell.
—
Grace undressed in the bathroom, dropping her clothes into the basket, and stepped beneath the shower.
She rinsed carefully, letting fatigue dissolve in the drum of heat. Steam swelled, softening the edges of the room. She tilted her head back and allowed herself the luxury of feeling good.
Evenings like this were her truest idleness: no decisions, no calls, no chessboard. Just water and breath.
She turned off the spray to soap her skin—and paused. From outside, a thread of sound. Humming.
Oakley. Clear and unselfconscious, like a bird who didn't know the word "audience."
Her being in the house had changed the air. Brought a pulse into rooms that had held their breath for too long. Even Grace's monotone days had gained a few notes.
She had the uneasy sense that after twenty-odd years of "living," she was only now learning what that word meant.
Dressed in a fresh night set, she slipped out into the cooling corridor. Downstairs, a fat delivery bag already waited on the table.
Oakley crouched on a chair, head tipped, absorbed in her phone. Her hair had come loose and hung in easy strands. With every tilt of the screen, her body swayed, intent and ridiculous.
"Game?" Grace asked, amused despite herself.
Oakley's head popped up. "Mm. Snake. I got enormous and then died."
"Did I interrupt?"
"No," Oakley said solemnly, finger to her lips. "Death was scheduled. If it's going to die anyway, better it cross the river sooner and get its soup."
Grace laughed under her breath.
Oakley quit the game, tossed the phone aside, and clapped lightly. "You're out. Let's eat."
She dragged the warm bag over. Heat seeped through to her palms.
"That much?" Grace asked, eyeing the size.
"Not much," Oakley said, opening boxes. "The shop's just conniving—their containers are… plump."
Plump. Grace shook her head—what a word. Absurd and perfect.
Oakley had just opened the greens when her phone lit up again, a soft square of light. Her mother's name pulsed.
She paused and answered, smoothing her hair with her free hand. "Mom."
On-screen, her mother wore a cream sweater; her smile was gentle, eyes crinkled. "Sweetheart. Have you eaten?"
"About to," Oakley said, swinging the camera across the table. "Look—stewed chicken. Haven't had it in ages. Is it impossible to find decent stuff there?"
Her mother peered and nodded. "Impossible. When I come back, I'll feast."